


unfinished drafts

by skaggirl



Category: Hannibal (TV), Mr. Robot (TV), SHINee, The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel (TV), Trainspotting (Movies), Trainspotting Series - Irvine Welsh
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:35:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29774880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skaggirl/pseuds/skaggirl
Summary: Literally just a compilation of works in progress that I don't have plans to finish. Fandom/ship and fic rating in the chapter titles. A lot of these are short, and a lot of these end abruptly. You've been warned.If any of these seem compelling to you and you'd like to request more, please feel free to let me know. I'd be happy to continue work on any of them. It kills me to think about how much of my writing sits completely unread, so I'm sharing just for the sake of putting new ideas out! Hopefully, you will enjoy the tiny morsels I have!
Relationships: Archie Cleary/Joel Maisel, Choi Minho/Kim Kibum | Key, Elliot Alderson/Leon, Kim Jonghyun/Kim Kibum | Key, Kim Kibum | Key/Lee Taemin, Mark "Rent Boy" Renton/Simon "Sick Boy" Williamson, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	1. will/hannibal, nc-17; 'losing it'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of my Funny Games AU where Will and Hannibal used to murder entire families in their summer homes just for shits n giggles. You probably don’t need to have read it so long as you can follow along with that description. Also: the age gap between Hannibal and Will is not as severe, and it starts around the canon time setting of Mizumono meaning Will = late 30s and Hannibal = early 40s.

Hannibal Lecter makes the drive to Wolf Trap on a Sunday night, dreading the sunrise and savoring the quiet dark. While he crosses into Virginia, Will Graham locks the garage and sheds his musty clothing to shower. 

Like most nights, he assumes he’ll wake up in a cold sweat, so he returns to his worn t-shirt and briefs when he’s done, and then he gets started on a fire and a small glass of whiskey. He’ll fall asleep in his armchair on a good night. On a bad one, he’ll lie awake thinking until he decides he’s had enough. Some of those nights are productive once he redirects his energy into something he’s eager to work on. Recently, Will’s been trying to complete the bookshelf worth of unfinished reading he owns. It’s the only exciting thing he can occupy himself with that doesn’t include at least one dog.

Ever since he got away from the eventful life he used to lead, Will has been stuck inside this routine of wake, work, wash, then sleep and do it all over again. He spends all of his weekends at home. Sometimes he thinks, _maybe if I were to ask Margot_ … but the thought alone is enough to overwhelm him. After all, routine is comfort and Will’s routine is so deeply ingrained in him that the slightest deviation, even one for his own benefit, might launch him into an anxiety attack of massive proportions. It’s not a risk he’s willing to take.

Around 10 PM is when Hannibal shows up. It scares Will half to death since he’s never had a knock on his door that late at night in all the years he’s lived alone. Even when his father was still alive, he and Will lived in relative solitude. He makes the cautious assumption that it’s a customer or some other ill-mannered person wanting to ask something of him, because he has nobody else in his life who might knock on his door when it’s black outside, and he throws on a pair of flannel pajama bottoms before he answers it.

And, _fuck_ , the surrounding forest is silent for all but whatever rodents are running around in the underbrush, and Hannibal doesn’t say a word when Will first sees him, but he looks so pleased at the sight of the shorter man, peering hesitantly between the open door and the frame. Will’s heart threatens to beat out of his chest, but the longer they both stand in absolute silence, digesting the presence of one another, the sooner it slows back to a steady pace. Will doesn’t hide his labored breathing. The last he saw Hannibal—or rather Dr. Lecter—was when he left him bloodied with his pants around his ankles on a white comforter. The blood was sparse but still enough to cover the material, and Will found himself stripping that bed and soaking the material in warm water and bleach, as much as he could muster, before he washed it and remade it and tried to frame it like it’d never been touched. When they first made their pact, they swore to go down together. Hannibal waited until the very last moment to break that pact.

Will had bruises in the shapes of fingers and palms covering his entire backside that didn’t go away until months after that day. When he saw them in the mirror, he remembered Hannibal’s calming eyes and how, despite Hannibal’s fierceness, they always grounded him. He’d had to do away with shorts and short sleeves for the rest of the summer. Not like it was much of a hassle—the summers have never been too warm at home.

Those days, they used to communicate only when they planned to see each other. They’d met in an art museum, which, in retrospect, is an incredibly pretentious place for the either of them to have fallen for the other, and far inferior to the massacre setting where they kissed the first time, or the empty summer house where Hannibal first told Will he was going to fuck him. Will was never a purveyor of any kind of art. He was in Baltimore with his father, where they were taking a day trip, and Hannibal was sketching in front of a Rembrandt. At first, he only said hello. Then they made casual conversation despite Will’s obvious disinterest.

Hannibal asked him to please eat with him, if only because he thought Will was stunning. When Will rejected him, he asked the other for a phone number to call. Then they began to see each other for meals together and more friendly banter. It was an easy friendship for Will because Hannibal never expected anything of him, and he never seemed ashamed of him when he couldn’t do one thing or another. Will would say rude things to him and only realize after the fact, but Hannibal never shunned him. They liked each other quite a bit. Hannibal loved to dote on his younger friend and Will loved to have the unfaltering support of someone as charming as young Hannibal. Sometimes Will would worry that his presence was a burden, because it often felt like Hannibal was taking care of him when he’d done nothing to return the favor. But Hannibal would reassure Will a million times over that his pleasure was in seeing Will happy. They complimented one another.

But Hannibal always has lingering, sadistic intentions, and he had them when he was young the same as he has now. He steadily revealed himself to Will. He wore his ugly pride and his hatred on his sleeve. When they talked, Hannibal always made sure to remind Will how much greater than the rest of _them_ he was. It sickened Will to love someone as vengeful as Hannibal once was, and for what reason he never fully understood.

Now, after so many years of distance, Will feels that familiar ugliness seeping in through the doorway to his own home. He wants to tell Hannibal to go fuck himself, but he’s never really been the type. Instead, he stays silent, but opens the door wider and allows Hannibal to pass through into the cluttered room. The dogs continue to cry and yip until he shushes them. In Hannibal’s hand, some expensive wine hangs in contrast to everything else in Will’s house. He half expects Hannibal to touch him right then, as he brushes by him, but it’s a relief when he doesn’t because if he had, Will might have combusted.

Once Will shuts the door, he waits for Hannibal’s cue to do anything at all. He ends up taking the other’s coat and scarf, draping them across the back of a chair in substitute for a coat rack. Hannibal looks practically the same after all these years. The only notable difference in his appearance is the faded, barely greyed hair and the stubble on his face. Will questions himself, and finds that he has no clue how he might have changed in his years since college: he’s probably got a few new wrinkles, he thinks, and he’s definitely more hunched over, more gruff. He may as well be becoming his father. That thought doesn’t scare him because he always respected his father. But the shame he feels, standing in front of a man so obviously put-together as Hannibal, is incomparable to any self-consciousness he’s felt in maybe a decade.

Could Hannibal be as mortified as he is? Could Hannibal hate the version of Will that he sees in front of him? Those questions plague Will not because he can’t stop thinking them, but because he knows any rational person would be thinking something else entirely.

Hannibal is the first one to speak, and he simply says, “Boat engines?” 

He must have seen the sign out front. Or, perhaps, he’d been keeping tabs on Will—now _that_ thought excites him. Will’s tone is defensive as usual when he’s attempting to hide his discomfort: “Does that surprise you?”

“No. You did always love boating.” He glances over to the rack of fishing rods, and the desk where Will likes to make his own flies. “I never took you for an enthusiastic fisherman, though.” Will chuckles. He isn’t sure what a stereotypical middle aged fisherman might look like, but he assumes it’s something like how he dresses and carries himself.

Hannibal glances down at the wine bottle that’s still in his grip. He’s probably wanting to set it down somewhere, but Will derives pleasure from knowing he could deny Hannibal everything he wants, even the smallest things, and leave him standing there at the foot of his bed with nothing but agitation. Hannibal could never be helpless, sadly. Will would do everything in his ability to make Hannibal helpless.

So many questions hang between them, about where they’ve been and how they’ve been managing, and the people they know and the things they do, and how is Hannibal’s practice?, and why did you stop calling me? Questions that don't really require an answer. The both of them already know.

Will supposes he never had the opportunity to actually give up Hannibal completely. Never wanted to, either.

“So, Will… what happened to those high aspirations of yours? You were so in love with righteousness. I guess I always figured that you’d be the first one to catch me.” Will assumed the same, before he realized he couldn’t get into the bureau on unsubstantiated talent and lack of social skills alone. His FBI fantasy only seemed like the right fit until it wasn’t.

“Hmm,” Will huffs, “Sadly, life’s circumstances are rarely as poetic as they sounded when you imagined them going differently."

Hannibal is practically glowing with something—if it is smugness, or amusement, or something else entirely, Will can’t tell. “No, they’re not,” Hannibal admits. They both know that, if Will had achieved even half of what he used to aspire toward, he would have begun hunting Hannibal several years ago. 

“Circumstances are usually what we make of them, which is why I must admit that I’m disappointed. I don’t think you were destined for diesel engines alone.” Will shrugs the backhand comment off. Hannibal is the only person who’s both arrogant and accurate enough to tell Will directly to his face what Will himself already knows: he should have been so much more than he’s become. Still, he can’t let the harshness of those words shake him. He spent too much of his adolescence being offended by Hannibal’s bluntness, and it only ever depressed him.

Oh, if only Will could be so naturally self-assured. “And what of you, Dr. Lecter?” Will examines Hannibal’s casual clothing, which hint at a white-collar man who has never willingly gotten his hands dirty. The irony of it all is what makes it so brilliant. The more put-together the man looks, the more Will honestly fears for his life.

Will attempts to spar. “I’ve read about you all over. A surgeon _and_ a psychiatrist—that’s not something you see every day. It’s a shame you would put it all on the line to satisfy a single appetite.” If he was focusing closer on the other’s body language, Will might have noticed a curled lip indicating annoyance. Even Hannibal Lecter has giveaways.

“Seems a bit… _primitive_ … when you frame my situation that way.”

Will snickers: “Isn’t it? I mean, we belong to two separate worlds now, Hannibal. It’s been at least 15 years since I last saw you, yet you’re talking to me now as if nothing’s changed.” Will spares a quick glance at the other’s eyes, which is still a rarity for him. It’s true: they’ve spent a lifetime divided (granted it’s been a short lifetime). Hannibal only existed as a brief flutter across his timeline. When they were separate, it was at the risk of Will never being whole again, as he felt he couldn’t be without Hannibal’s influence over him. And now Hannibal stands in front of him and speaks to him as if they’re still familiar with each other. That indicates that, amongst all the everyday comings and goings, the relationship between the two of them has been ever present, always existing if only in their most base desires for one another. It indicates that the passing of time has no influence over their most intrinsic understanding of self and each other. 

Or, at least Will assumes it does. He assumes they’ve always had the same cravings.

“You pretend like you know me to gain my favor. And you take the risk of hiding behind somebody who you have no idea if they will protect you.” Will calculates his risk. Though he’d like to say whatever he pleases, he knows better than to push his limits. “I suppose you’ll kill me if this doesn’t go how you hope it will, but that seems like too much effort for something that could be avoided by… not showing up in the first place.”


	2. sick boy/renton, nc-17; 'symbiosis'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some angst centered around a headcanon where Mark’s depression after Wee Davie’s death propelled his addiction while Simon was still a “social user” in his own eyes (or as much of one as you can be on heroin).

Ah’m fucking sick of the Rent Boy nowadays, which doesn’t sit well with the baith of us as we’ve decided to share this flat for the time being. The posh Aberdeen cunt… he’s really a fucking downer. The other morning ah was sitting with him n a cup of coffee and he starts tae go on, in this mostly unprompted tangent like, about his criticisms of “the modern man and woman”, wi nae appreciation for the sanctified role ay brooding, truculent masculinity toward submissive womanhood, the kind ye often observe in Scotland n learn tae appreciate. Not for Rents! Ah don’t know what started him oan it entirely but he wouldnae stop, even though ah let him know ah couldn’t be bothered on the topic.

Mind you, ah’m not some wifie-beater like oor Franco but it’s jist no a topic that particularly interests me. It must have been for Mr. Renton but, seeing as he couldn’t stop wi it, yes? So then ah got the idea that he wis only daein it to annoy me, because I ken he thinks ah’m the most sexist cunt in all of Leith… Edinburgh… mibbe all of the world. But he’s nae better than ah am.

Rents likes tae play the martyr, eywis arguing aboot political beliefs, et cetera, wi the express intent ay proving his moral highness, but he’s just as sick and undeserving a gadge as the rest of us. He goat us started on H—or more like we started it together, but he’s responsible fae Spud being the most drug-reliant of the bunch, which is a sin in itself. Danny Boy disnae have the ability tae say no tae a good time. He needs tae be supervised like a bairn in that sense. Anyway, Rents is fucked in the head but wants to convince the world he oanly has clearer insight than the rest of us. Somedays ah fancy a heated debate and others ah’d pure prefer tae punt him intae the sun.

This particular day, for instance, on the topic of gender: why should ah give a toss?

Ah thought to myself, _defending lassies willnae fix yer ginger heid n below-average cock, my tragically sexually unsatisfied mate_. Ah don’t think he expected us tae feel bad for him being a biscuit-ersed dobber, however.

Actually I have no reason tae be shitein on his good name for that one mishap. No… that was only one of many straws that broke the camel’s back. Fir all the time ah’ve known Mark Renton, you’d expect me tae be used to his constant bitching, used tae the antisocial tendencies, used tae stupid shite like his reading books n watching videos as the only pastime when he’s not scoring, but it aw makes the time move slower tryin tae coexist wi him. Not even skag can completely distract me from the boredom, ah swear.

N ah told him aboot the boredom problem, because ah’m not afraid of offending this particular chum. Simone needs tae get oot of this bubble, break this cycle, I sais. It didnae even seem like a problem so much as it did imminent death. Ah believed that ah would rot if ah didn’t leave that fucking room right then. The disrespecting rid-heided mate of mine heard ma pleading voice n told me tae scram! He said he wasn’t daein anything tae hold me down! Like it went in one scabby grey junkie ear n oot the other with him not hearing a bit ay ma complaint, that he’d been in that dingy junk house fir days n ah wanted tae go somewhere. _With_ him, not alone. No tae pull but tae dae anything at all that expended mair energy than sitting oan a sofa. Ah wanted tae git us oot. _Into the light, a new horizon…_

And while he still will not indulge in listening tae ma criticism, ah’ve finally procured some sort ay response from him, through ma incredible perseverance. Rent Boy, Spud Murphy and maself have big plans for a night at the rave clubs that Rents has suddenly grown fond of. Ah’ve scored some E so ah’m expecting time well spent, but also laid back withoot the high-strung Begbie at oor sides, whae swears he’ll never come to these rave clubs for no justifiable reason except that he’s Franco Begbie. It’s a planned event, with women, alcohol n drugs involved, and a promise not tae disappoint. The anticipation has us shaken up for days. 

Ma real friends, no the sick imposters ah’ve been huvin tae deal with, will pay us a visit once again. We don’t enjoy oorselves as much when junk is involved, that’s the truth. But that wouldnae stop me from using it—ken that heroin is the most reliable high in ma life and aw.

Before the fun starts, however, the prelude to this fine summer day is spent in thrall to the ravishing Pauline, who’s recently flown in from Liège. She’s a particularly tall Belgian hen wi long, honey colored hair and clear skin. It dawns on me quickly that she bears some resemblance to Tanya Roberts, the beauty whae played Stacy Sutton. Why she’d choose to spend her evening amongst Scots is beyond me, though ah’ve taken heed tae ask. Something about family - this is irrelevant to me and ah only give her some 3 hours of ma time before the goodbye nip n promise tae acquaint maself with her once again before she leaves. Sore tae admit et but ah spend most of my time wi her anticipating the night. It’s not anything new that’s happening but, only Mark has been in an accelerated depression since Wee Davie’s death a year back. It’s surprising tae me that he’s so affected due to how he hated the wee man for as long as he wis alive, but family eywis works mysterious ways oan the emotions.

To think aboot the number ay things ah’d do if my sisters were involved in trouble… but ma sisters aren’t vegetables, luckily. Rents didn’t have it in him tae love Wee Davie when he was alive and he’s paying for that negligence now. Truth is, the sad cunt was actually insufferable and nobody can blame Rents for despising him, the only exception being himself. Ah only wish he wouldn’t make his punishment so harsh for it.

Tonight we’re determined tae forget that horridness, and Rent Boy is gaein tae truly enjoy the time even if it takes me sawing off ma right arm to make it happen.

Ah return to the flat where said whinging tube is marinating in his self-inflicted misery, hash in hand and playing that forbidden Lou Reed live album that he’s supposed to hate. Fucking wankstain. He claims he loathes the thing but cannae justify why he owns it and _listens_ to it. — Long day? he asks, and I realize it’s only past four o’clock and ah’m already thoroughly tired of myself.

— Ask Pauline and the 35 pounds she wis kind enough to spare. Rents pats the sofa in indication, n ah take a seat next tae him. — Ah don’t think she’ll be leaving the hotel room for some time, if you know what ah mean. There’s a cheeky smile so big ah can feel it oan ma face.

Even when ah raise my eyebrows he doesn’t entertain my boasting, but he does pass the spliff n that’s all ah can really ask for. — Is Pauline a tourist?

— She’s Belgian, I say wi an elongation of the word _Beeelgiaaan_.

He audibly moans like the lusty poof he’s destined tae be. — Christ, Sick Boy, how’s she gaunny get home if she’s skint?!

We bump shoulders then ah crack a smile even though it’s an honest concept to concern maself with. — If she can’t find a way home without it, ah consider, — then et’s her fault for being neither cautionary nor resourceful. Besides, ah didn’t actually give her the means to find me again so ah’m off the hook regardless. _How’s that for Scottish hospitality?_

Rents appears sick wi me because he has been for years, though same goes on my end of the stick. Whatever happens, it will always be us sticking up for each other. Whatever trial, we will always persist, even if we fucking despise each other to no end. And Pauline? Poor Pauline. Great rides like that generally get that way because they get so invested in the sex that they let down all their guards. Oan one side: no inhibitions in the sack; oan another: vulnerable to larceny. She seemed smart enough but. 

Even if Rents doesn’t see the appeal to ma methods, he has no right tae treat me like a worse person than he is, because we’ll forever be one n the same. Yet he’s no having et… ah can see in his expression. You’d think a stoned man would be easier tae reason with.

— Awright, he starts, tapping me lightly oan the knee as he rises, — Am away for a kip, join me if you’d like. He winks to assure ah understand he’s joking. Though ah try and conjure up a witty response, I don’t manage to deliver it before he’s taken the record off n headed oot the room wi it in tow. Probably gaein tae hide et in his sock drawer for all ah know.

Wi the last of the spliff to maself and no music to fill the near-silence, it’s easy tae sink intae the sofa cushion n meditate a wee bit. Before long ah’m blissfully unaware of everything around me and then ah’m transported tae some time later when ah awaken tae Rents clinking dishes around behind me, apparently aiming for some type of food even though oor refrigerator's undoubtedly empty like it’s been since we moved intae the place.

He doesn’t know ah’m awake yet, which ah accept as an opportunity to watch him struggle. Ah notice he hasnae changed from what he wis wearing earlier but it looks mair flattering now than it seemed to before: tight jeans n sweater (because he won’t nick better fit clothes), sneakers, denim jacket, face looking an incurable mess. Rents opens the refrigerator to find a grand old nothing and he groans like pure sex again. — Aw out, Rent Boy? ah shout then relish the way he nearly jumps oot ay his breeks.

— Fuck oaf, ye almaist gave us a heart attack!

Wi that I stand, viciously cackling, n begin stretching n cracking my rested joints in front of him. If ah was completely loony ah might believe that Rents was actually admiring me as ah did it—ah wouldn’t doubt it seeing as ah have this inconcealable sex appeal that spares no woman or man—but chances are he’s thinking of something pathetic like how tae let me down with the truth that he doesn’t want tae leave the flat tonight after all. Depressing arsehole. Still, he’s looking at us. He sais, — Am looking for some nosh.

Ah approach n pat him on the flat belly. Looks like he’s livestock ah’m wanting to fatten up, n ah tell him that ah can see why he’s hungry. Rents punches us oan the arm n ah selflessly choose not tae retaliate. Instead ah suggest that we leave early for a cafe before the night’s festivities begin.

There’s a place a few blocks away fae the flat n even less away fae the club. It’s not licensed so bevvy has tae be postponed until later oan. For the next twenty minutes, we torment well-behaved customers wi oor company alone while Rents finishes his plate (I didn’t order anything) and ah observe: for such a frail wee cunt he’s quite skilled at shoveling shite intae his stomach. Anyway, this isn’t oor scene and we don’t manage tae see anyone we recognize, so it’s oaf to the rave club a half hour early for us.

Neither of us suggests phoning Spud because, knowing him, he likely won’t answer the phone even if he is somewhere tae be found. He’ll come around soon enough.

Oan the way in ah slip Mark some E before the music can drown out oor voices completely. Most ay the folks inside look like gutter punks or hipsters, which ah realize Rent Boy resembles a bit from what’s left of him being a punk in secondary. Aye, ah remember the “aggressively glam-rock puberty” tae… those were the days when we got along best because we hud the same terrible taste. Now ah’m wearing slacks n loafers, shagging lassies oan an hourly basis, while he’s not had much more fanny than frigid Hazel n semi-stiff Fiona since he was 17 years auld. Not tae mention ah used tae be the ugly yin! What a glorious turn of events!

— Christ, Mark, ah missed ye so much… remember when ye fucked yer back tryin tae do a backflip? Ah start laughing but it dies quickly. So little time has passed n we’re already flying. — When wis the last time ye danced, mate? He dances like a gangly lass. He's too sexy in that way.

Forgot we're still en the toilets, though, and fuck. Fuck… it's closing in oan us.

He’s got one hand on my arse n the other pulling me in by the small of my back, trying tae keep us as close as humanly possible. — Aye, it’s been a while. _It’s been a while, but he’s still goat the hunched back from it._

Not sure what starts us oan it but suddenly ah’m inconceivably angry at him for changing in any way at all. Ah mean, since we were teens. Not like ah havnae changed maself but my anger seems valid in the moment.

— Ye’r becoming a mingin corpse, splayed oot on the flair injecting heroin most times. It’s like there’s none ay you left anymore! It’s all true… he’s disappearing before ma eyes. Most times ye can’t tell ah’m oan the same stuff when we’re together. — Ye need to stop using, man, ah tell him.

But Rents doesn’t take ma sentiments seriously. He’s tae distracted by the brutal force with which eh’s holding us to him, lodging our limbs against or between one another. — But ah don’t want to stop, he sais. Fuck, I don't want tae stop _this_ , and we cannae have it the both ways, Rent Boy.

 _Tisk tisk_ , ah scoff. — Only selfish cunts force their best mates tae watch them kill themselves.

He stops in his tracks n forces us away from him, up against one wall of the stall while ah’m at the other. As if that statement sobered him up irreversibly so that ah have tae remind myself that he’s goat at least 20 milligrams of MDMA in his system.

— Ma fucking brother died! Mark shouts, snarl and slanted eyes all directed at ma feeble self. He’s stifling tears which come up the back of his throat instead, concealing his voice, dragging him back down to a deep state of depression n begging him to stay silent instead of asking for the help he needs. Even though he doesn't say anything else ah ken the rest of the statement: _cannae blame me for being sad_. Right.

It’s heavy shite. Ah didn’t ask for this right here n now, but ah egged it oan, so it’s ma fault.

— Right, Mark... ah know that.

He’s decided he cannae look into ma eyes in the condition that he’s in, which raises my anxiety about if ah’ve just fucked everything over a statement ah could’ve easily avoided making. Not entirely ma fault fae being honest but certainly not worth him throwing a fucking fit over. Rents paces the bathroom stall while ah pull my shite back together and make it look like ah’m leaving him, which finally draws a response ootay his failing system. _Wait,_ he sais, n draws me back in by ma shoulder. It’s a split second before he’s working oan ma belt buckle with lightning speed. Cannae fucking keep to himself because he’s a needy cunt, as are all heroin users.

For once in ma life ah don’t particularly feel like getting the last word in. Ah don’t ask what he’s planning tae do, but Rents dropping to his knees signals that he’s searching for an apology. _Sorry for overreacting_ mibbe, or _sorry fae killing maself wi stupid drugs._ What he says instead of these things is, — Can ah suck you oaf?

— Jesus Christ, ah was right about ye being a slut. Wasn’t sure that part ay ye still existed.

Then five minutes later, ah can’t keep hands tae maself when he’s working with focused precision to suck all the life oot of me through ma cock. One hand rests oan his head, petting his buzzed hair since ah can’t tug it, and the other holds his jaw open just delicately enough tae comfort him. If there’s yin essential life lesson ah’ve learned it’s that ye can’t hurt the people you fuck, at least during the act. Since Mark was nearly greeting 5 minutes ago ah decide tae gift him with all of ma regular comforts n more.


	3. joel/archie, nc-17; 'try me (i need you)'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joel and Archie expand the scope of their relationship. (Ok this one is super cute and I'm upset at myself for losing steam with it.)

Only ever when he was in a drunken stupor did Joel begin the process of asking _questions_.

Not proper questions, though. These were completely unfounded inquiries into the private thoughts of others, and Archie was the only person subject to them because everybody else had the foresight to leave the room when Joel started chattering. Joel was enough of an idiot when he was sober; drunk, the man could hardly tell left from up. Other times he got handsy with strangers and drooled while weeping over his failures with Midge. It was an ugly sight to see—and when the _questions_ started Archie contemplated having lost faith in Joel to start with.

God only knows how they’d survived so long as friends. Between the two of them, they had maybe half of a regular size brain, one room in a dim-lit warehouse, one sofa to sleep on, and the Button Club and all its noisy inhabitants to look after. Mrs. Moskowitz made up in excess for all they lacked.

“You ever get bored of this?” asked Joel on another ill-fated, drunken night.

“Get bored of what, Joel?” Archie was in the process of moving the other to his bed, hand across his back. He led him in the general direction though Joel couldn’t seem to walk a straight line. It was only them drinking tonight. The girls didn’t like to come around anymore, already tiring of the schmaltzy bachelor character. Joel always drank more, and Archie always drank less so he could help the other to sleep after and not kill himself in an accident.

“You do everything like you’re told to, but who knows if you really want something else?”

Archie sighed defeatedly. “Are you telling me you’re already bored of the club?" he asked.

He backed Joel up to the side of the bed until both their knees touched the mattress, and he sat Joel down next to him as gracefully as possible. “No-ooo… I love the club. That’s one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. And you know why it was good?” He pointed a finger to his own face, half-lidded eyes and tousled hair. “Because _I_ wanted it.”

Archie swept Joel’s aggressive finger away and squeezed that hand to reassure him, whatever tantrum he was about to throw, it didn’t matter as much as getting some overdue rest. “I don’t know what you’re getting at, here, buddy.”

Joel sighed and leaned back into the mattress. He laid in silence and let his eyes finally fall closed, and as soon as Archie figured he had to be sleeping, Joel rolled onto his side and stared up at the other, contented smirk across his face. Joel’s eyes were too sweet for his own good, and always deceptive. He was bursting with affection and it showed. Archie could’ve blushed if it wasn’t so common for Joel to look at him that way. Instead, Archie told him, blank-faced, “You should go to sleep.”

“Hmm. No.” His eyes fell to the bedsheets, then scanned over Archie's legs, up to his stomach. He was very blatantly ogling him, but that wasn’t unusual either. Drunk Joel liked to flirt with whoever the nearest person in sight was. “I think…” he started, his voice drawling on… “I wanna blow you.”

_Blow…?_ The air left Archie’s chest. A half second of disbelief played across his features and then he shook his head: no, no, no. 

He didn’t say no, because that would have broken Joel’s heart, but he said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” which meant the same thing. He had to soften the rejection because Joel was in a fragile state and obviously off his rocker.

“I don’t agree with you.”

“What?”

Joel giggled—he really was too much to handle. “I haven’t done that before, but I want to try it. Girls who do it to me always seem to be enjoying themselves.” He smiled big and open-mouthed up at Archie, who just grimaced in return.

"I don't know, Joel. I appreciate the offer, but I’ve got Imogene and the kids to think about, you know?"

"What's that supposed to mean, 'I know'?" The wound from Joel’s former marriage stung, even when he was only half-cognizant. Archie hadn't even thought twice about the implication. "Christ, Archie, I’m not asking you to be my boyfriend! It'd be like a friend doing a favor for a friend."

"You make it sound like it's normal to get around with friends."

"How would you know what's normal when you hardly get around with anyone, big guy?"

“I’m married!” Archie’s voice rose. He was feeling defensive, though he had no real reason to be because he was fighting with the one person he trusted most in all of the world. Joel just liked to hit all of his nerves. They picked on one another constantly. 

“Stop avoiding the subject.”

“I’m not avoiding-” Archie yelped, but then caught himself before he got overpowered. 

And, okay- Archie was maybe particularly high-strung from the dry spell in his relationship with Imogene, having disappointed her with how much time he was spending at the club nowadays. She refused to do so much as look at him when he spoke to her, so he wasn’t planning on asking her for sex any time soon. She was preoccupied with the kids, so rarely did she seem enthusiastic about doing anything for Archie’s benefit, and he couldn’t blame her for that. But he was undeniably tempted by the idea of being given some attention. 

Hell, they were both drunk. They could chalk one brief instance up to any number of things that had transpired tonight. It didn’t _have_ to mean anything. This could just be another thing they shared.

Archie grabbed Joel’s collar to pull him in, chest to chest. He could almost feel his breath deflecting off Joel's lips. In a lowered, assured voice he said, "I'm not avoiding anything. Just wondering if we’ll both regret this come tomorrow."

It was unusual to see Archie so smug and Joel wouldn't have expected it from him. It turned him on, anyway. Didn't help that they were pressed up so close to one another. Joel teased him, "So you're the big man now, huh?"

"How about I'm whatever you want me to be right now?"

He saw the split second where Joel seemed sidetracked, digesting those words, and then the moment after when he smiled wonderfully. He glistened when he smiled like that. Archie might have been the one to provoke him, but Joel leaned in to kiss him first—their mouths collided smoothly, and they kissed chastely for the first split second before Joel got excited and prodded Archie's mouth open. He kissed with much more determination than a girl, and Archie already liked it a lot more than perhaps he should have.

Joel went for Archie's belt, got distracted from his urgent kisses and kneeled down to be at eye level with the already-apparent bulge in the front of Archie's pants. This was bound to be sloppy, with Joel already salivating simply because he couldn’t keep his mouth closed for more than a few seconds. Archie couldn’t remember the last time anyone looked so eager to get his pants off. Without putting much thought to it, his hand landed on the back of Joel’s neck and avoided messing his hair, though the slicked locks were already in half-disarray and would inevitably get worse the more Joel tumbled about. 

Joel was pretty, honestly. It’s not like Archie was avoiding the fact. He just never really let it get to him, the way Joel’s features were more soft around the edges than most guys’. He never foresaw that he’d be looking at those features from between his legs… wasn’t allowed to let it get to him until this moment. If his ears weren’t already hot from the sight then they grew hotter from the incredible sense of misbehavior between them.

-

Joel unfurled his hand and extended it out to Archie, who was half-way across the club watching him move apprehensively. “I’m offering up one dance. Take it or leave it,” Joel offered, and bit down on his cheek to try and contain his nerves. This was skirting the line of their agreement to remain friendly, and the song he had picked was far too slow for friends to dance to.

He couldn’t really justify choosing the song, but then, Archie couldn’t justify taking his hand and pulling him in by the waist. It had a romantic feel to it. They weren't pretending anymore.

For Christ's sake- they were dancing to a love song. _Try me, darling, tell me I need you..._

The two men slowly stepped together, finding a rhythm despite them both having only ever lead before. Joel let his hands up around Archie's neck, smoothing the hair back there, and Archie gripped Joel's narrow hips. For all intents and purposes, it mostly felt the same as dancing with a woman. Except Archie smelled better, Joel thought. He wasn't powdery like a woman. He wasn't sweet, but wasn't quite musky either. Archie smelled like Archie, light and stupid and carefree. He wasn't trying to be anything but himself.

_Hold me, I want you right here by my side..._

Surprising himself, Archie mustered the confidence to link his arms together around Joel's lower back. Doing that brought the other into an embrace. Holding him close made it easier for Archie to avoid making eye contact. Some things were still too intimate, anyway. Never mind that he'd had Joel's fingers all over his body before, including the most vulnerable places. Looking his best friend in the eye felt like a challenge and it made him unjustifiably angry. 

Joel leaned his head on Archie's shoulder, which was sort of an uncomfortable feat since they stood at about the same height. Simple displays of intimacy like that didn't come naturally between them, but it didn't stop Joel from trying. He missed having someone to care for.

_And your love we won't hide…_

Archie stifled a small laugh. "I can feel you breathing on my neck."

_Talk with me, I want you to stop my heart from crying…_


	4. elliot/leon, pg-13; untitled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leon tries something new. (That's it. That's all I've got for this one.)

Mid-day, some monotonous afternoon on day whatever of week whenever, Leon was sitting atop his bunk with his back against the wall and shittily sketching the opposite side of the cell from reference. For all its perks (mainly networking and endless free time), prison offered nothing in the way of quality entertainment.

Though he was pretty far into his sketch, Leon wasn't appreciating the outcome. He'd figured he should take up a new hobby and was sampling all of the ones he could try while inside, starting with old fashioned pencil and paper. He closed the freshly procured sketchbook and dropped it off the side of his bunk, and the _wack_ as it hit the ground got Elliot's attention from the mattress below. They'd just finished lunch where they'd sat in resolute silence, walked back to their cell together and settled into their routine places. Elliot was brooding more than usual.

Leon wasn't asking questions, but he knew him well enough to know by now that he'd had a thing for Carla, and something had gone awry between them. It wasn't like Elliot was being particularly secretive about it. Leon seemed to care just as much for her, though maybe not in the romantic way, but still. The three of them had made a sort of fucked little prison family out of each other. And now they were even more fucked, 'cause two of them couldn't admit they wanted to get it on, and the whole thing was screwing with Leon's psyche. He rarely minded being kept outside the drama but sometimes felt like he'd befriended the two worst communicators on the planet.

Vigilante hacker bullshit. Not even Dark Army incels could prep him for how insufferable Elliot would be, all personal affinities aside. But Leon did what he had to do and saw the little glimmers of sustenance inside Elliot, often enough that he sort of cared for the little freaky dude, even more than was in the job description.

What Elliot and Carla fighting meant for Leon was that he had to give them both their space. All of Elliot's twitchy, dodgy shit and all of Carla's bitchiness were how they coped with the prison ecosystem. Not all people had the connections that Leon had, and folks like Elliot and Carla were lowest on the food chain—good people who didn't deserve to be locked up for the stupid shit they did. A part of Leon felt accountable for Carla's wellbeing just as much as Elliot's. She'd gotten the short end of the stick, being sent to co-exist with the types of Nazi rapists that hated her just for living her truth. So, yeah, maybe Leon invested in her more than he should have, but she deserved the help more than anyone.

Elliot stood and spared the other a knowing glance, grabbed his notebook out from where it was tucked under his pillow, and started to make way for the library. 

"Elliot, man, stay a second with me," Leon asked. He leaned over and grabbed Elliot's bicep but retracted when the guy jumped clear out of his skin. Leon raised his hands, palms out, in submission. It stung a little every time Elliot reminded him he couldn't trust him (even if he deserved it, or if Elliot didn't mean to seem so cold). Leon reminded himself that he wasn't in this to make friends.

"Sorry, cuz. My bad. I still ain't used to the no touching thing." He chewed his lip and waited for Elliot to say something, which of course he didn't. He wasn't in the chatty sort of mood—hadn't been since the Adderall incident.

"You good to talk?" he asked again. Elliot crossed his arms, hugging his notebook. All those thoughts of his that he kept on lock, hidden in a vessel that came courtesy of Leon… it was sort of poetic if he thought enough about it. He had provided the one thing that had proven itself most essential; Leon thought of all the times he'd seen Elliot hunched over that notebook writing faster than his hand could keep up, like he depended on it to stay alive. 

Elliot readjusted so he looked noticeably less eager to flee. "Yeah, man. Sorry for being weird," he said faux-apologetically, still itching to get out.

"Nah, boy. You're only as weird as the next tweaker, you know? Normal's another lie that the government sold you." Leon smiled warm, with heavy loving eyes, and inspired a half of a smile from Elliot in return. The puppy dog look of his was a hit at winning confidence. It was his most deceptive feature.

"I know Hot Carla's pissed at you. Whatever you did, you probably deserve it, but I don't want you getting too down on yourself. You treat her better than pretty much anyone here. She won't say so, but I can tell she appreciates what you've done for her." Elliot scanned the floor, avoiding eye contact but listening intently. If this was going to be about Carla then he was already losing motivation. She was exactly the person he wanted to get his mind off of. He hadn't done any good for her, actually. Most people were better off not knowing him to begin with.

"And also, like I said…" Leon scooted his ass off the mattress and landed in front of Elliot, leaning his arm against the bedframe casually, "whatever you need, I can get you. I keep a level of discretion to all my business. I'm here to facilitate, not judge, you feel me?"

Elliot wracked his brain for what Leon could be implying. He didn't know shit, didn't know how much Leon might know about him outside of what he'd shared willingly. Ever since Leon had gotten them transferred into the same cell, he'd been set on making Elliot talk about everything from old TV series to dreams to the people he talked to who nobody else could see. He was teetering on the edge of something far more dangerous than he could have understood.

The worst part of their friendship was that it stood a chance at being a friendship. Elliot almost wanted to tell Leon everything, and he felt that he could if he had to. Leon was too goddamn sweet.

"Did I ever tell you that I just kicked morphine?" Elliot asked (because he honestly couldn't remember, and also to imply that he didn't want pills, if that's what Leon was suggesting).

Leon shrugged off the accusatory tone that Elliot used. "Shiiiit, nah." He sighed. "The opioid epidemic is an honest tragedy, cuz. Good on you for not being a statistic and all that." He leaned closer into Elliot's vicinity, resisting the natural urge to put his hand on the other's shoulder to establish a tighter center between them. Leon's voice lowered just above a whisper. "So nothing strong, that's cool. I just don't like seeing your sad ass struggle so much to get by. You're my boy, Elli. You know that?"

The two of them were such polar opposites: Elliot permanently high-strung and Leon the most easy-going person he'd ever met. Leon pestering Elliot for ways to make him happy was _such a Leon move_. He was the first person Elliot knew who didn't find it inconvenient to invest time and energy into the lives of other people. He just cared about all people. He had no reason to, especially in the case of Elliot… but he cared. He honestly cared.

Elliot hung his head in modesty. The faintest smirk played across his lips.

In the far corner of the room, Mr. Robot leaned against a wall and watched their conversation unfold. While Elliot indulged all of the praise that was piled onto him, Mr. Robot didn't trust it for a second. "I still don't get why he cares so much about us," Robot said.

"Have you ever heard of being someone's friend?" asked Elliot back. Mr. Robot responded with a groan.

Though he was already up against the cell wall, Elliot was cornered further into it by Leon. It wasn't a threatening approach, but it was… different… in all ways from the Leon he thought he knew.


	5. key/minho (& others), nc-17; untitled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kibum is an addict who's revisiting his past with a long-lost friend. Jonghyun is a radio host and companion. Taemin's just along for the ride.
> 
> I had a whole outline for this one with a fairly complex backstory. A lot of it is missing and the chunks you have here are pretty scrambled. I'd love to give more context but I honestly don't remember and don't have any clue where I wrote this outline, so I suppose it'll just have to exist outside of our complete comprehension. Lmao sorry!

_**October 2012** _

For the first time in nearly a year, Kibum wakes up in what feels like a real home.

Someone’s drawn the curtains so the sunrise is blinding him. Though the damage has already been done, he lifts a hand up to shield his eyes, and when he opens them, he realizes that he’s somewhere warmer than he’s used to being for this time of year. _Last night…?_ He went in alone, but came out with someone. That much isn’t too unusual. Kibum’s hair is messed and he ruins it further by itching his scalp. He needs to take better care of himself during the dry seasons, he thinks, but he’s wise enough to know that it won’t happen. At least his host was kind enough to add extra blankets to the bed.

 _Last night..._ Kibum wonders as he drifts more into consciousness. It was Minho—he remembers, now. 

He had spotted Minho in a setting he’d never imagined him in. Their first time seeing each other in however long, and the guy looks just the same as he did last Kibum remembers seeing him, except his hair is cut down from the ponytail length he used to wear it at. Of course Kibum had to acknowledge him. After they got drunk together, Minho invited him back to the old house, which Minho is now occupying once again, and then they must have fallen asleep right away. Kibum is choosing not to let it bother him that Minho never informed him of the move. As of right now, his only worry is whether or not to lie back down. As much as Kibum would like to spend the day in bed, he can’t justify sleeping all day when he has an audience.

There’s an imprint of a body next to him on the mattress, but no Minho in sight. Kibum recognizes this room from when it used to be an office. The closet in the corner is where Minho and Minseok stored toys. If this was 15 years ago, Kibum might have found Minho’s soccer uniform in that closet. Now, it must be home to other things, he thinks—unfamiliar things that Minho adopted into his life once Kibum wasn’t a part of it.

Kibum starts to untangle himself from the bedsheets when he first hears the other’s voice outside the fog of a trip or a high. Minho must be on the phone, he decides, because he can’t hear any other distinguishable voices in the entry where Minho’s clanking dishes. On the floor are a pile of his clothes from the night before. He takes his time getting redressed, and notes that the contrast of Minho’s bedsheets to his week-old laundry are striking. He smells like shit. Instead of pulling on his dirty jeans, he rummages through the hamper by the opposite side of the bed and dresses himself in Minho’s worn pajama pants and t-shirt. It’ll at least last until he can wash his clothes, he decides.

Hesitantly, Kibum tiptoes his way to the landing above the kitchen. He knows the house all too well and can trace every inch of it back to a fond memory. When he and Minho were in middle school, Kibum remembers, they would get chewed out for thumping down these stairs too loudly. One benefit of having a rich friend was that they had frequent movie nights and video games aplenty. Now Minho is roaming the kitchen, the one part of the house they’d never touched before, and he’s mumbling something about an undistinguished _him_. _He’s fine_ and _he seemed happy_. Kibum knows the conversation is about him, knows that he is intruding and makes the respectable decision to not listen in on it. Instead, he washes his face and hair in the sink of the hallway bathroom. Minho’s pants are unusually long on him, but the fabric warms his bare feet against the tile.

When he finally makes it down to the kitchen, his wet hair unbrushed and swallowing his face, Kibum clears his throat to warn the other of his arrival. If his intuition is telling the truth then he’s treading on thin ice now.

Minho’s finished his call, luckily, and smiles when he sees his friend, regardless of how uncomposed he must look. “I didn’t expect you to wake up so early,” he says. Kibum doesn’t know how to respond to that. He didn’t think it was early… just expected that it was so gray outside because it’s the fall and everything is perpetually gloomy.

His host is also attempting to make breakfast, though that means filling two bowls of cereal in Minho’s world. It’s some healthy, granola-looking cereal that Kibum silently wishes could have been something with a lot of sugar. Though he knows that type won’t benefit him in the long run, he finds himself prioritizing comfort before anything else nowadays. He’s become a mirror reflection to the Kim Kibum of years past and he wants nothing more than to sleep in all morning and do nothing all day. If only he had the foresight to understand how doing nothing all day could be just as exhausting as working, he would be spared a lot of grief.

“Hopefully this is alright,” says a tired-sounding Minho.

Kibum grins back. He’s happy to be with someone he knows intimately for once. “Yeah, it’s fine,” he says. Minho fills the bowls with milk and hands one to Kibum, then offers him a cup of coffee, which Kibum happily accepts. Coffee is a luxury few can afford on a daily basis.

They make the smallest of all small talk: how did you sleep, how are you doing, do you want more to eat, can I offer you anything else. Kibum asks to wash his old clothes, which Minho helps him with. Then, when the washer is loaded, Kibum steps out to smoke in the yard. He counts all of the trees that are dying and the bushes that are already dead. A part of him that hates this season now substitutes the part that loved it more than any other. Minho joins Kibum, and wraps a blanket around his bare arms. He hadn’t taken the time to notice how cold he was.

It’s another awkward silence before they speak again. _Yes_ , it’s still Minho’s parents’ house, and they like to sleep in until the late morning. _Yes_ , Minho is living here long term. He has an internship, now, with a company that makes kids’ clothes, which suits him because he has always liked kids. Kibum also likes kids a lot. If he could, he’d like to have them someday. And maybe Minho will get a managerial position after his internship has ended. And is Kibum currently looking for a job?

Kibum is always sick of conversation, so he cuts Minho off when he begins to ask about Kibum’s aspirations. He can tell that Minho is offended by his coldness, but he can’t understand why Minho expects things to be the same as they’ve always been. By no means are they the same people they were in high school. Last night, when he’d first seen the other, Kibum thought his old friend was just a familiar-looking stranger. Minho’s behavior and attitude had changed just as much, if not more so, than Kibum’s had since the last time they spent a day together.

“Ming,” he begins sweetly, placing an icy hand on Minho’s shoulder, “I appreciate you letting me sleep here, but I have to leave once my clothes are done.”

“Why?” Minho asks.

It’s a good question: why does Kibum have to leave? He doesn’t have anything planned for today… rarely does he make plans, anymore. He’ll probably find Taemin at the public library, and if the day is going well, they might make a date out of window-shopping. Kibum dreams of living out his typical day with Taemin, but that day has yet to come. Maybe a day with Minho would be more typical, if he was to accept the offer.

Kibum can envision it: they’ll put on a movie for old time’s sake. His visit will surprise Minho’s parents when they finally wake up. Because it’s cold outside, they’ll drag a space heater into the TV room and drink more hot coffee. Then they’ll learn to chat comfortably again. Then Minho will offer Kibum the same spot in his bed for another night. At least, for this one brief moment in time, Kibum can pretend to lead a peaceful life.

But, goddamn it—Minho seems so distant from his life now. Even if things panned out perfectly, Kibum would still have to explain himself eventually. It’s unrealistic to think things could possibly turn out better than how they will when Kibum leaves. If he has any sense, Minho will want nothing to do with the new Kibum that he’s only briefly met.

While Kibum’s lost in thought, Minho steps out and then returns with an envelope that he silently hands over to Kibum’s free hand. Kibum stubs out his cigarette on the cement patio and opens it. Inside is a wad of bills that he doesn’t count, but Minho informs him that it’s about 500,000 won. Minho shrugs and looks away as if he’s done nothing, and though Kibum’s always been grateful for Minho’s tendency to give gifts, he still scoffs at the prospect of taking money from him when he’s slept in his bed and eaten his food. He concludes that the money is either a bribe to keep him around or to send him away for good. Either way, and regardless of his own cruel intentions, Kibum doesn’t like that Minho thought to give him it. “Thanks, but I don’t want any handouts,” he admits.

“It’s not a handout. You know my parents have a shitton of money, it’s not even mine.”

“Then I don’t want your parents’ handout.”

“Kibum…” Minho’s barrier of restraint starts to fall. Even though he tries to appear composed, Kibum can see a struggle behind his gaze. “I haven’t asked any questions—I know you won’t answer them, anyway—but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m worried sick about you. If you just take the money then I’ll feel a lot better.” So it’s a personal plea, Kibum thinks. It was all about Minho to start with… he doesn’t care about Kibum, just wants to look like a good friend, even though he’s not one. If he was a good friend then he would have never left Kibum alone after graduation. _Wait, that’s unfair._

Kibum lightly shoves Minho to show that he’s tired of this topic. Any more of it, and he might ruin what’s left of their relationship. He motions to the envelope: “Give me this much money and I might start using the hardcore stuff, y’know?” He weakly laughs.

“Don’t say that. You’re not that kind of person.” 

If Kibum can hold eye contact for long enough, he might be able to judge if Minho is really on the verge of crying. His voice is quivering. He seems to be reconsidering how certain he is about that statement. “Come on… don’t be rude,” he says. He crosses his arms and bounces on the balls of his feet, which leads Kibum to believe that he must be cold or nervous.

Kibum huffs like he always does: bitchily. “I’m not being rude,” he says, “I’m just being honest. I don’t want your money.” But that’s not the honest truth, and he knows it. It takes all the willpower Kibum has not to take the stupid money and run home to his mother. If it wasn’t for his crippling sense of pride, he might actually be able to achieve something, yet he’s conditioned to deny any thing or person that may be slightly good for him. If he just takes the fucking money then they can go back inside where it’s warm.

“Maybe if you wanted to get clean, you’d realize that I’m the one who’s looking out for you.” And it’s with that—a single raised voice and some misplaced words—that Kibum decides to throw his fit. 

“‘Clean’? As in you think I’m an addict?” Of course Minho didn’t mean that, and Kibum doesn’t actually believe he did. Still, he’s sick of people assuming things about him when they don’t know the full story. Forget that he’s on his first fresh change of clothes in a week, and he could pass for any other grungy-looking youth on the street. All he’d had last night was LSD, anyway. He isn’t going through withdrawals, and _addicts go through withdrawals, everybody knows that._

Kibum could lecture Minho for hours if only he cared to, but, instead, he gives him the bitter silent treatment. He knows he has more important things to do than yell at a figure from his past. Except he doesn’t have better things. Except he’d like to just move on from Minho and forget he ever existed, in this moment. After grabbing his soggy jeans and t-shirt from the wash, Kibum storms out of the Choi house and vows to never speak to Minho again unless it’s absolutely necessary. He takes Minho’s worn clothes with him.

Kibum immediately regrets his choice. He knows his temper got the best of him, but he’d been anticipating a blow-up since he first realised where he’d woken up. His bitterness toward Minho is endless; even when Minho doesn’t say a word, it’s his silence that infuriates Kibum the most. He’s cold and cruel where Minho’s warm and tender. Of course they conflict. But the truth is that Minho’s always been nothing but kind to him—it’s always Kibum at fault for ruining things between them. He can’t handle too much sympathy… he doesn’t deserve it.

Still, Minho’s his brother. He’s someone Kibum loved dearly at one point.

Maybe if Jinki and him have another fight, or something happens to Taemin. Yeah, if him and Taemin break up. _Are they even dating?_ Maybe then he’ll stop by Minho’s place.

—

_**July 2009** _

_The first summer after high school, and you’re spending it like a queer in America._

It’s not the word _queer_ that replays in Kibum’s head like a song on loop, but the implication that Minho expects anything else from Kibum which bothers him so profoundly.

As if Minho doesn’t know the truth about him. As if he’d never told Minho the most disturbing discovery he’d had to make about himself, though he would have preferred not to, despite the fear that Minho may never speak to him again or do even more hurtful things than that when given the chance. He’d slept a mere few inches away from Minho the night before he told him, and that terrified Kibum. He was gay. He is gay, and always has been. And though that piece of information apparently does _not_ disturb Minho like Kibum had anticipated it might, Minho still has the gall to make comments like this one which haunt Kibum’s every waking moment.

 _Like a queer in America._ What about America makes him any more queer? Is it the fact that he’s existing, and will be existing in America, that makes it queer in the first place? Minho makes no sense.

And it’s not that he thinks Minho’s intentions are cruel. Minho has probably never purposefully said something hurtful in all of his life. He just isn’t the same as Kibum, so how could he possibly understand?

Anyway, Kibum chooses not to confront him about it. He shrugs it off like he does to every other comment that’s thrown at him. If he can survive being teased relentlessly over little things like how effeminate his tone of voice sometimes gets, then he can survive a meaningless comment from his best friend, especially during their last summer together before adulthood divides them indefinitely. He doesn’t want to invest any moment of this vacation in negativity. And, regardless, he does plan to spend his time in America particularly _like a queer_.

—

_**October 2012** _

_Jonghyun-hyung,_

_I recently got in a fight with an old friend. The more I think about it, the worse I feel._

_He offered me money because I don’t have much of it right now. In truth, I wanted to take it, but my pride got the best of me. The issue is that my mother depends on me for an income right now. She has complications with her health and I want to support her in any way I can. If I had accepted my friend’s gift, I might have a better chance at helping her, so I feel very guilty that I didn’t take it because I’m both hurting my friend and my mother. This wouldn’t be an issue if I had been more responsible in the first place._

_I love my friend and my mother, but I may have damaged my relationship with the both of them permanently. I feel like the most selfish person in the world right now. Without these two people, my life would be significantly worse._

_I don’t know if you can solve my problem, but I hope that you can at least sympathize with me. I don’t want to believe that I am a bad person._

_Thank you for always having kind words (and I think that I will call myself your fan from now on),_

_K_

—

A part of him that immediately draws Kibum in is the noticeable tattoo at the top of his spine. It’s two words in English which he translates diligently: _Poet_ and _Artist_. Kibum’s never considered himself the kind of person to obsess over ink drawings on skin, but this skin is particularly smooth, and the drawings are words that obviously carry some meaning—two words in thick black lettering pasted where everyone can see them. He’s proud to wear them. And that the words are in English mean something to Kibum, too. 

The guy is entirely in his element on this dancefloor… even more so than Kibum is, and Kibum has never not owned a stage. He’s grinding on men and women and everyone surrounding him becomes a mess of limbs that entangle him. 

From the looks of it, the guy knows all these people. They’re probably friends who met through the club scene. Kibum keeps tracks of him, despite him being shorter than the other men, because he’s wearing his metallic tee that reflects all the light that it catches. They’re all talking to each other, dancing, taking breaks in between to laugh and smile, then dancing more. It’s stunning how carefree they all seem. Back when Kibum used to imagine what happened in gay clubs, before he ever thought he’d step foot in one himself, he probably pictured something just like this—so many people who look like they’re in love with everyone and no one in particular.

And then Kibum realizes that he’s staring at that tattoo and fantasizing about its owner, so he makes one silent prayer and musters the confidence to approach the group and insert himself into it. And when the guy sees Kibum, right away he smiles and turns in on himself, flashing that back tattoo to Kibum. It’s as if he knew the other was questioning it.

Kibum directs his attention toward a tall woman with short hair. She’s shimmying to his right with a tasseled party dress on, and his first thought is that she certainly doesn’t look like a lesbian, though Kibum has not a single clue about how women operate in the first place. He asks her what her name is, to which she doesn’t respond. She asks, “Is this your first time?” 

Kibum nods confidently. Though he’s nervous, he makes a habit of not showing his worry. The woman takes his hand softly and begins to twirl him, and after that they’re simply dancing, not a care in the world. Kibum thinks for a minute that he’s walked into a scene from a movie. He feels good like this, dancing with a bunch of strangers. A mainstream girl group song comes on and Kibum doesn’t even try to hide his excitement because he knows the song all too well. He starts popping his body to the thrumming techno beat. 

Then, he remembers that the hot guy is still there and his mind blanks on the choreography, which leads his body to lose its natural rhythm, and he starts to stumble all over himself. When he lifts his head up from drowning in his anguish, the guy is _right there_ and Kibum’s pulse is picking up even more now, to a painful extent.

The guy visibly checks him out, which boosts Kibum’s confidence again. He’s lost sight of his new friend but it doesn’t really matter because he knows he can survive without her help. Already he feels like he’s found a second home between these bodies and their obnoxious sweaty perfume smell. 

“Is it your first time?” says the guy, shouting into Kibum’s ear. Kibum says yes, again. He tries not to be overtly embarrassed when the other puts a hand on his hip and moves in on him, so very slowly. “Is this okay?” asks the guy sweetly, and Kibum feels warm with that gentle touch. Of course it’s okay, he thinks, but he forgets to send the message. The guy looks hesitant until Kibum pulls him in closer so that they’re touching. He’s too fumbly to make much eye contact, still, but Kibum tries to lead the both of them just to prove that he can be assertive if he wants to be.

The tempo of the song is a little bit too fast for the sultry type of dancing, so Kibum presses right up against the other and sways their hips together. The guy looks satisfied with this pace, and somebody beside them makes a remark at them right as they’re getting into the thick of it. Kibum feels embarrassed but turned on enough that he doesn’t really care if other people are staring. 

The guy tells him that he’s a good dancer. Kibum giggles but it’s big and genuine and boisterous. 

“Can we get out of here?” Kibum yells over the booming music. The other laughs, which is a slight blow to Kibum’s ego, but he doesn’t let it strike him down. He knew what his goal was going into tonight and he doesn’t plan to chicken out on it when he’s got what’s easily the hottest guy in the club pressed up to him. The guy smiles again, and his big eyes are so tender and emotive when that happens. Kibum feels like melting into a puddle of himself when he sees them.

The guy nudges him away from the dancefloor but keeps touching him, either by locking fingers with Kibum or leaning his chin on Kibum’s shoulder to guide him forward. He doesn’t know anything about casual hookups, but Kibum is fairly certain that this guy is exceeding all of the normal expectations. So far, he’s been considerate enough to mind Kibum’s comfort level but smart enough not to handle him like he’s fragile. He pushes Kibum toward the exit door and then presses him up against it to kiss him for the first time. Kibum blushes after that kiss. It’s dark enough that the other probably can’t tell, but his face is burning.

“Where are we going?” asks the guy.

—

Kibum can’t admit that this is his first time. Not for lack of trying, but because the words just never make it out.

Yet it’s this hot, deep, secret space that Jonghyun puts him in which eases him into a state of total openness. Even when he fears that he has no idea what he’s doing, the rich blanket of darkness covering them reminds him that this is what he was born from and that it’s in his nature to fuck just as much as it is his instinct to love. God, Kibum thinks he could love Jonghyun right now. He’s not even entirely sure how to put the condom on, but Jonghyun is face-down in his bedsheets with his ass in the air like Kibum is the most exciting thing he’s had in years, practically begging for Kibum to do all types of shameful things to him. Except his body language speaks with conviction that he does _not_ think any part of this is shameful. Kibum already knows that he’ll never have anything better than this.

From this angle, the older boy’s skinny legs look even more long and elegant, leading up to charming round hips. Even despite defined muscles and body hair, this part of Jonghyun seems very effeminate. “You’re so pretty, Jonghyun-ah.” Because they had never agreed to any level of formality, Kibum chooses to be more direct. Jonghyun’s shy laughter when he hears this is just as pretty as the rest of him.

“You are, too,” says Jonghyun. He pulls Kibum down by the nape of his neck and gives him another kiss. They’ve been touching each other for hours, and despite it all Kibum still feels butterflies in his stomach. 

“I don’t know how to do this,” Kibum whines. The other’s face is buried in a pillow, but Kibum could likely see his elated grin from a mile away. His whole self is shimmering. “Please show me what you want me to do,” he asks. Jonghyun quickly readjusts so that he’s more upright. He pulls Kibum’s hand over to rest on his lower back, and then he hands Kibum the forgotten bottle of lube.

Jonghyun tries to explain in as few words as possible since his eagerness is getting the best of him. “Just get everything as slippery as possible,” he says, stifling another bout of pretty laughter. 

\---

Kibum takes Jonghyun’s hand now… the first time he’s touched him since the last time they kissed. “You were my first love,” he admits. Speaking those words feels like letting out a breath he’s been holding in.

Hearing Kibum admit his feelings and knowing that he’s been concealing a deep admiration since the day they first met, listening to his broadcasts, writing to him and learning his music, Jonghyun begins to feel overwhelmed. He remembers the pseudonym ‘K’ and all of his letters. He could practically hear Kibum’s voice narrating them every time he read one aloud for his audience. But even if he suspected all along that it was Kibum, it never seemed to be of any use to admit that. Who was Kibum to him before this all—before Taemin became the link between them? 

It occurs to Jonghyun that he’s been intertwined in Kibum’s life far longer than he’s even known Taemin’s name. Ever since that night, he’s loved Kibum back. He only tried to preserve the perfect image of him that he had ingrained in his memory: the time that they curled up next to each other and slept all night long, before his insomnia started to become a real issue. Waking up next to a sweaty, drooly, stinking Key was his first sense of longing for true normalcy.

To discover Kibum again, seeming much less hopeful than he had been before, was inexplicably heartbreaking for Jonghyun. He’d never told that sweet kid how uplifting his spirit was—and now that spirit has shriveled.

“Sorry I didn’t try to keep in touch with you,” Jonghyun admits, pulling Kibum into a halfway-hesitant hug. They needed this even if they didn’t want it, truthfully. Too many things had gone unsaid for too long.


End file.
